As may be easily imagined, we had no mind to walk over to the lake, or to pay ten dollars for a vehicle to carry us as many miles, and Jack was beginning to grumble at my curiosity when we met a farmer’s wagon—with a farmer in it, of course. The latter offered to take us over for fifty cents a head, as he was going in the same direction. Never was there a better piece of good luck. There are several Scotch families settled on French Mountain, at the head of the lake; our driver was one of their patriarchs. He literally poured out funny stories of the “kirk” and “dominie”; and although some of the jokes were very nearly as broad as they were long, Jack and I were forced to hold our sides while the “gudeman” sparkled and foamed, like a certain brown export from his native country.
During a momentary lull in the conversation, I took occasion to inquire with respect to a black woolly-coated
dog, who followed the wagon, if he were a good hunter. “Yes,” said Jack, with a contemptuous smile at the subject of my inquiry. “He is what is called a beef-hound.”
“Hoot, mon,” said his owner, “that dog would tree a grasshopper up a mullen-stalk.”
It was in no sad or poetical mood that we passed by “Williams’s Monument” and the scene of Hendrick’s death and Dieskau’s defeat, or saw at “Bloody Pond” the lilies bending over the sedge and ooze which served of old as the last resting-place of many a brave young son of France. We did not think of the fierce struggle which had here confirmed our Anglo-Saxon forefathers in possession of this soil. All this comes up now as I write; for, certainly no sober thought entered our brains until, as we turned round a mountain-side, I saw Jack take off his hat. I looked in the direction of his respectful nod, and—oh! what a vision!—the deep blue lake sank from view in the embrace of the distant mountains. Its winding shores and secret bays, curtained with veils of mist hanging in festoons from boughs of cedar, birch, maple, and chestnut, were like enchantment in their endless variety of form and shade. No less the work of magic were the islands. These, owing to the reflection of the water, appeared to hang over its surface as the clouds seemed to hang over the peaks above. To stand suddenly in view of such a sight might have startled and awed even lighter souls than ours. Here, indeed, our hearts were lifted up and thrilled as we thought of the gray-haired apostle and martyr, the first European who sailed upon the water before us—the Jesuit Father Jogues, who also gave it on the eve of Corpus Christi its original name—Lac du Saint-Sacrament. Our Protestant tradition, following
the courtier taste of Sir William Johnson, has handed down the name of Lake George, but we trust that the hope of every lover of American antiquity who has visited its shores may not prove vain, and that time, in doing justice to all, will restore to the lake its first true and lovely title.
A few small sails on the water, and the smoke from the village at our feet, broke the spell and reminded us that we were still among the haunts of man.
Caldwell is made up of a courthouse, several churches, stores, hotels, and shops, a saw-mill, and a few streets of separated dwelling-houses. The grand hotel is near the site once occupied by Fort William Henry, and is called by that name, and looks towards Ticonderoga, although the view is cut off midway by the windings of the lake. Old Fort George is overgrown with cedars and shrubs, and only a few feet of ruined bastion remain. The scene of the massacre of Fort William Henry is now, as nearly as we could reckon from Mr. Cooper’s description, a swamp. Time, however, is said to have greatly altered the topography of the shore at this point, and certainly it is hard to locate Montcalm’s old camping-ground during the siege described in The Last of the Mohicans.
Leaving such questions to the antiquarian, perhaps, dear reader, you will ask one with a practical regard for the present and future, namely, How do they provide for their guests at the Fort William Henry? Alas! that were indeed an ill-timed question for us. Perhaps, if I had asked the proprietor to allow me to report upon his fare in the pages of The Catholic World, he would have done so in a manner satisfactory to all parties; but, as no such brilliant idea occurred at that time, I am forced
to confess that I was afraid that it was too good. Be it said to our shame, we did not promenade upon the magnificent piazza, nor did we stop to taste the alluring fare of the Fort William Henry. What else did we come for? Why, to see Lake George, of course, and to have a good time; and we did both, although we went without lunch for some hours that day.